


The Lady of Fangorn

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: General, War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2009-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-22 11:24:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3727017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Under the gloomy eaves of Fangorn Forest reside many secrets, most of which are best forgotten. After an unexpected meeting, Éomer is put in the midst of a web of secrets, and is desperate to find the answers. But some things are better left unspoken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Banishment

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

The Lady of Fangorn  
Part I: Banishment  
  
The fires surrounding the group of elves flickered menacingly. This seemed fitting, as the business that was about to transpire was not pleasant. What Míriel had done was unforgivable, and subsequently, neither would the punishment.  
  
Seemingly oblivious to any shame looming over her head, Míriel walked proudly through the crowd as it parted before her. She looked neither to the right nor to the left, simply kept her eyes straight ahead. Head held high, she reached the king and knelt  
“Míriel Úmanyar, what you have done is beyond any laws set in place by our people or forefathers.” Thranduil looked solemnly down onto the Elf-maiden before his feet. “What is to be done with you?”  
  
“I do not know,” she replied softly, so that only he could hear. “Wisdom is not something I am known to possess.”  
  
For several heartbeats, the glade was silent, Thranduil sitting in noiseless contemplation. He looked to the sky, for faintly through the trees, some stars could be seen. He spoke wordlessly to the Valar, seeking their guidance in this matter. His fair face was greatly troubled. What to do with the disgraced Míriel eluded him. After a great many thoughts crossed his mind, the solution came to him.  
  
“Míriel, I leave you two choices,” he said solemnly. “The first is to depart from here and travel to the west, where you will sail across the sea to the Undying Lands.” Surprised murmurings arose from the assembled elves. “The other choice is eternal exile. You must leave Mirkwood, never to show your face again among the Fair and Wise. Whatever your choice may be, it will last until the end of time.”  
  
Everyone was soundless, straining to hear Míriel’s decision.  
  
She raised herself slowly, head still elevated proudly, and when she spoke, her voice did not quaver. “Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm, your offer is a just and unexpected kindness.” Míriel turned and glanced around the glade, making eye contact with several elves. “As you know, I am not of the same region as those gathered here, and often times do not feel as if I belong. I will leave and be expelled from all Fair company; perhaps in my time of solitude I will learn wisdom."  
  
“This choice forever bars you from entering the Undying Lands to the west,” said the king gravely. “But so be it.”  
  
Míriel turned fully and traveled back the way she had come, her feet making no sound on the forest floor. No one tried to stop her, and she uttered no word to anyone, never straying from her course.  
  
In the eyes of many, Míriel Úmanyar was no longer to be honored as one of the Fair Kindred.


	2. Part I: Remembrance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Under the gloomy eaves of Fangorn Forest reside many secrets, most of which are best forgotten. After an unexpected meeting, omer is put in the midst of a web of secrets, and is desperate to find the answers. But some things are better left unspoken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In reality, omund actually died before Thoden.

The Lady of Fangorn  
Part I: Remembrance  
  
Branches crackled loudly under the horses’ hooves, and Éomer flinched. The silence around him was unsettling, and he felt as if they were intruders in a hostile land. Fangorn Forest was different from any other place he’d ever been in, and he longed for the wide, open plains of Rohan. It seemed impossible that two environments so dissimilar could border each other.  
  
The young Halfling riding behind Éomer seemed to feel the foreboding as well, for he clutched the man’s cloak more tightly. Éomer shook his head in private wonderment. Up until this morning, Halflings–Hobbits, as they called themselves–had only been a distant legend, a character found only in children’s tales. And yet here they were, as real as the Elves and Dwarves. He glanced to where Legolas and Gimli were astride one horse, and smiled.  
  
This day had been full of new and unheard-of happenings. While the others of the party, including his uncle, had apparently thought nothing of it, Éomer could not dismiss what had happened at Isengard so lightly. Conversing with wizards such as Saruman was not an everyday occurrence, at least not for him.  
  
Gandalf is a wizard, Éomer reminded himself, and yet you find nothing strange in it. This was true, but Gandalf was not like the fabled sorcerer. He was personable to a certain extent, and seemed to be willing to admit his own faults. He was a little surly at times, but Éomer did not fault him for it, as he realized that everyone had their flaws.  
  
A strange creaking and snapping brought Éomer back to reality. To his startled ears, the sound appeared to be coming from the densely packed trees themselves. He glanced anxiously around to see his companions’ reactions. Everyone else appeared to be treating the odd moaning as a normal thing, and he tried to shake off his feeling of foreboding. The intense canopy of foliage blocking him from the sky unnerved him.  
  
“I do not like this place,” said the little Halfling behind him. Éomer recalled that his name was Merry. “Back home, the trees were not so dark.”  
  
“These woods are a discomfort to me as well, Master Merry,” replied Éomer. “I’ve never been around trees as ancient as this. It wears on my very soul.”  
  
Éomer’s words were met with a harsher, more distinct groan from the trees. Legolas turned his sharp eyes toward man and hobbit.  
  
“Be watchful of your words,” he hissed softly. “The hearts of this forest are hardened against us.”  
  
Abashed by the Elf’s reprimand, Éomer nodded glumly. It didn’t help matters much to hear about the trees’ anger. Legolas should have kept his knowledge to himself. He glanced closely at their surroundings, and realized with a jolt that Gandalf was not leading them on the same path they had used to reach Isengard.  
  
“Where are we going?” Éomer asked aloud. The thought of growing lost was a terrifying one. These woods seemed to go on forever.  
  
“You shall see,” Gandlaf called from ahead. “All will be revealed in time.”  
  
Merry snorted, and Éomer smiled slightly. In the short time he’d known the wizard, those six words had been heard quite often. He looked to his uncle and saw that Théoden wore the same puzzled expression he was sure his face held. The king shook his head, signaling that he didn’t know the answer to Éomer’s question. With a frown, he urged his horse on. The faster they went, the sooner he could be free from Fangorn.  
  
“Hey, Pip!” Merry called loudly. “Doesn’t this place make you think of the Old Forest back home?”  
  
Pippin turned around and nodded with wide, serious brown eyes. “At least the trees aren’t moving around like that this time. I don’t think we’d have Tom Bombadil to pull us out.” The small Hobbit’s face changed rapidly from solemnity to amusement. “Remember what a fool Frodo made over Goldberry?”  
  
Éomer heard Merry chuckle behind him. “Oh, come now, Pippin,” he laughed. “I daresay that you’ve done a great deal of sillier things in your time, for all his being so much older. And anyways, there’s an excuse for poor old Frodo. He spent far too much time with Gandalf as a lad.”  
  
The two Halflings laughed uproariously and Éomer couldn’t help smirking. At the front of the line, Gandalf muttered, “Hobbits!” and urged Shadowfax on faster.  
  
To say the least, hearing of this Frodo intrigued Éomer more than he would admit. From what he’d been able to gather, there were two other hobbits traipsing around somewhere in Middle -earth. The finer details, like what they were doing, and where they were going, were kept hidden, something Gandalf made sure of. Éomer often felt isolated from the rest. Even his uncle seemed to know more than he did.  
  
Aragorn, who for the majority of their trip had kept his own counsel, turned now and spoke. “It is a wonder to me that the four of you reached Bree unharmed,” he said thoughtfully. “More innocent and naïve beings I have yet to meet, Frodo excused, of course.” Éomer was unable to see Merry or Pippin’s face, but could well imagine their expressions.  
  
It was seldom that Aragorn spoke, and each time, his words were grave and somber indeed. Although nothing about him hinted at it, Éomer knew that Aragorn was many years older than him. Only the man’s eyes betrayed this fact. In their clear gray depths, the suffering of the ages was displayed for anyone willing to look. In his limited life experience, Éomer had only once before witnessed such eyes.  
  
They had been his mother’s.  
  
For as long as he could remember, Théodwyn's eyes had been the same. At first glance, there was nothing remarkable about them. They were just two orbs of woody brown, revealing nothing and taking in nothing. But on closer study, Éomer noticed that his mother could communicate a multitude of words with a single look. Éomund had always declared that Théodwyn's eyes were a lamp, a lantern lit by the fires of her soul.  
  
Being only nine at the time, Éomer had dismissed his father’s words as the mumblings brought on my lovesickness. Now that he was older, though, and now his mind was mature, he recognized the truth in Éomund’s expression. Little did he know that his own eyes, so alike his mother’s, could convey the same depth of feeling.  
  
With a sickening turn in his thoughts, Éomer recalled his mother’s death. That night, Théodwyn’s eyes had shone brightly with the fierce light of death, and he had been unable to stop it.  
  
\--  
  
“It’s nothing, husband,” Théodwyn said, assuring her family, but only momentarily. “Tis but a small pain.” She smiled, but the gesture was cut short by a grimace. “There, it has passed.”  
  
Éomer clasped his younger sister’s hand comfortingly. Éowyn’s face was twisted into a mask of fear and he knew himself to be no better off. While their mother had never been strong, the past few weeks had seen her health take a dangerous turn.  
  
It had all began with an innocent afternoon ride. Of course, no one had seen anything unusual or found this a cause for fear. Théodwyn often took such rides and they were treated as a normal part of life. Unfortunately, there was something about this ride that differed from the others, and this slight difference changed was a matter of life or death.  
  
Instead of traversing the rough, untamed plains and meadows as she usually did, Théodwyn made her way through the villages that dotted the countryside. The course she’d chosen was riddled with lakes, ponds, and brooks. While crossing one rapidly flowing stream, her horse tripped on a loose boulder, throwing her into the water. Not thinking much of this, Théodwyn simply picked herself up and remounted her mare, continuing along her way without another thought.  
  
That was the first in a series of errors.  
  
As mentioned before, Théodwyn had never been a strong woman, and was quick to take ill. The fall had done her no serious damage, but the hours spent riding with damp clothes was her perilous mistake. For days on end, her slight body was wracked with feverish spasms and coughs. The hours went by, and everyone in the household held their breath, hoping against all hope that Lady Théodwyn would survive–live perhaps for just one more night.  
  
Éomer did what he could to set his little sister’s mind at ease. They had never been close, and had only drifted farther apart as the years passed by, but the fear brought on by their mother’s illness pulled them together. At night, Éowyn would creep into his room–crying from yet another all too real nightmare–and beg to be allowed to stay with him through the darkened hours. There was very little Éomer could do to resist his sister’s plea, especially while looking into her tear-stained face. He readily agreed, but regretted it later on, as he was forced to shush her when she started to talk and fidget.  
  
But while brother and sister’s bond was strengthening, Éomund became distant and withdrawn. As his wife slipped closer to the grave, he began to long for the peace that came with death. There was no escaping the fact that Théodwyn was dying, and he wished to join her once she passed on. The¬ children tried to bring him back, told him that they still needed him, but all for nothing. There was no shaking their father from his depression, even when Théodwyn began to regain a little of her health. ¬  
  
One dark moonless night, Éomer was awakened from a listless sleep by Éowyn’s urgent touch.  
  
“Come, brother,” she said, tugging on his sleeve. “Mother wants you.”  
  
Not bothering to dress, Éomer sprang out of bed and went to his mother’s bedside. Lately she’d been able to stand and walk around for short periods of time, but it appeared that she had overtaxed her strength. Looking into Théodwyn’s pale, strained face, Éomer felt the all too familiar terror well up inside his veins.  
  
“My son,” Théodwyn rasped. “Éomer.”  
  
“I am here, Mother.” Éomer reached and grasped her small hand in his. She turned her face and met his eyes with hers. They were full of suffering, yet there was an underlying tone of acceptance.  
  
“You have grown so much,” she smiled. “What is your age now?”  
  
“Nine,” he said softly.  
  
“Ah.” Théodwyn nodded wisely. “What a fine boy you have turned out to be. Tell my, how is my daughter? How is Éowyn?”  
  
“She fares well, Mother,” Éomer replied hesitantly. The truth was that she was troubled by nightmares and the uncertain future. Even at the age of four, she was very aware of her surroundings.  
  
“Good, good.” She blinked slowly. “And how are you?”  
  
“I’m very worried for you, Mother,” he answered honestly. “It does not sit well to see you so ill.”  
  
His mother seemed surprised at first, and then her face softened. “You were always a thoughtful one. Tis an admirable trait.”  
  
“Thank you.” Éomer spoke the words, but did not mean them. At this moment, there was nothing in life to be thankful for.  
  
“I love you, my son,” Théodwyn whispered. “You must promise me to watch over Éowyn for me. She is so young, so fragile, so unattached to the ways of this world.”  
  
“I will, Mother,” he promised, clutching her palm tighter. “I swear I will.”  
  
For several minutes, the only sound to be heard in the room was Théodwyn’s heavy breathing. Just as Éomer was beginning to think she’d fallen asleep, his mother opened her eyes. For the rest of his days, Éomer would never forget the look in those twin brown spheres.  
  
“Goodbye, Éomer,” she gasped finally. Without another word, her body went limp and her breath stopped.  
  
“No, Mother!” Éomer shook her, as if by doing so he could bring her back to life. “No, Mother, don’t leave us!” Tears poured unashamedly down his young face. Somehow realizing that it was useless to try and revive his mother, he flung himself over her cold, lifeless form and wept bitterly. In his young eyes, there was no shame in crying over those he loved.  
  
That was how Éomund found him the next morning, but he paid no attention to his son. The loss of Théodwyn, although not unexpected was too much for his world-weary soul. He took Éomer’s place at the death bed, and the task of comforting Éowyn fell onto Éomer’s small shoulders. He did it without complaint though, as he saw it only as part of upholding his promise to his mother.  
  
Éowyn’s need for comfort was only intensified two days later, at the death of Éomund. Unable to continue on without his wife and helpmeet, he killed himself, leaving his two children parentless. Éomer saw to it that his parents were buried with the honor they deserved, and then took his sister to Edoras, the home of their uncle, Théoden.  
  
\--  
  
Éomer was pulled out of his painful recollection by Merry’s voice at his back. The young Hobbit was saying something about food, and he bit back a grin, though the Halfling couldn’t have seen it. As far as he could tell, all the two Hobbits talked about was food and eating, Pippin considerably more than the other.  
  
“Tell me, Master Hobbit,” he said amusedly, “is the love of food common among your kind, or are you and Master Pippin out of the ordinary?” Gimli chuckled loudly, and Merry had the good sense to blush, although Éomer could not see it.  
  
“Oh, we are not much out of the common way,” he replied cheerfully. “You should have seen all the gorging done at Bilbo’s farewell party. Nothing has ever rivaled it, and I don’t expect it shall.  
  
“Yes,” Pippin joined in, “and the look on Gandalf’s face was priceless. I doubt even Strider have seen him behave in such a manner.”  
  
“As I recall, Peregrin Took,” Gandalf growled good-naturedly, “you and Merry were quite fascinated by the fireworks. Nearly killed off the whole Shire, in fact.”  
  
Gimli laughed in earnest now. “I only wish I could have been there. You two rascals should have gotten a sound thrashing, and I would have been happy to do it, too.”  
  
“Well,” Merry said, “perhaps I did let things get a little out of hand, but it was all Pip’s idea.”  
  
“Hey!” The other hobbit didn’t seem to agree with this accusation. “You were the one who told me to get the big one.”  
  
The small person behind Éomer was silent, and Pippin seemed to take this as a sign of victory. He glanced smugly over his shoulder, and winked at Éomer.  
  
For several hours, Gandalf led them on in a northeasterly direction, taking them farther and farther into the gloomy confines of Fangorn Forest. Outwardly, Éomer gave no sign of his discomfort, but inside he was a mess of tightly strung emotions. Why did they go this way? Mordor lay to the east, as did both Gondor and Rohan. Surely anything of great importance lies in that direction.  
  
“Oh look,” Merry said suddenly, “that’s where Treebeard first found us. Remember, Pip?”  
  
“Aye,” agreed his friend. “Twas a strange thing, to be sure. I’d never heard of an Ent before.”  
  
“I hadn’t either, not until this day,” Éomer admitted. “What are they? To his surprise, it was Legolas who answered.  
  
“Great herders of trees, their proper name is Onodrim,” the elf said quietly. “Their task is to watch over the forests of Middle Earth. This Treebeard is the oldest of the Ents, and resides mostly in the Ent-home known as Wellinghall.”  
  
“Yes, that’s right,” Pippin agreed in amazement. “But how did you know?”  
  
“I am an Elf,” Legolas said simply. “We remember things that others do not.”  
  
“Mortal lives do not span the same years,” said Aragorn. “It’s not our place to remember.”  
  
Legolas bowed his head. “So it is, my friend.”  
  
“Could you tell us about this Ent?” Éomer requested spontaneously. Any chance for diversion was welcome. “Twould help to pass the hours.”  
  
“Very well,” conceded Legolas. He was silent for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. “As I have said, Treebeard is the oldest of the Ents, for he was set on the earth by Yavanna, the Vala of all growing things. As young Peregrin could tell you, he is over fourteen feet tall and has a gray beard and brown eyes that are lit with a green flame.  
  
“He has a long memory,” continued the elf, “and gives slow and careful consideration over all matters, even those of slight importance. Although, when he’d roused to action, Treebeard can be quick and agile, and very strong.”  
  
“But not bendable,” interrupted Merry.  
  
“And he likes to say, ‘do not be hasty,’” Pippin added.  
  
“Aye, all this is true,” said Legolas. “Yavanna sent Ents to earth as protection to her well-beloved trees. It is believed that they arrived sometime around–or shortly after–the awakening of the Elves. In ancient times, a large portion of Middle Earth was covered by forests, and Treebeard walked among the trees of the corner west of the Misty Mountains.  
  
“It was around this time that the Ents and the Entwives, their counterparts, began to grow distant. The Ents loved wild, untamed things, while the Entwives preferred orderly gardens and orchards. So it was that the Entwives traveled east, crossing the Anduin abandoning the Ents. Along with them went Treebeard’s beloved, Fimbrethil.  
  
“Over the years, the forests of Middle Earth dissipated, and the Ents migrated south to what we know call Fangorn Forest. As Elvish lore has it, Treebeard once met with Amdir–King of the Galadhrim of Lothlorien– and the two agreed to keep Elf woods and Ent woods separate although they could visit if the inclination came. However, over time, travel between the two forests dissipated.  
  
“During the war of the Last Allegiance, Sauron destroyed the gardens of the Entwives which lay east of the Anduin. These lands are now known as the Brown Lands. To this day, no one knows what has happened to the Entwives–whether they were killed off, or enslaved, or relocated. Treebeard went looking for Fimbrethil, as did the other Ents. Over the years, they continued to look for the Entwives, but eventually stopped venturing out of Fangorn.”  
  
“And so,” finished Legolas, “the history of the Ents is well-remembered by Elves.”  
  
“Well, it may be an Elf’s place to remember,” Gimli broke in, “and it may be a Hobbit’s place to eat and be merry, but a Dwarf does these things as well, especially the latter. Tell me, Gandalf, are we going to stop for a meal, or are we expected to become as tireless as you seem to be?”  
  
“Aye, Gimli,” Gandalf sighed. “We will rest, but only briefly. Time has value, even now.”  
  
The group halted beside a stream, and food pillaged from the watery wreckage of Isengard was brought out. Éomer noticed that Gimli and the Hobbits are with vigor that would far outmatch any man’s. He also took note of Pippin’s unwavering interest in the round, sphere-shaped bundle Gandalf was keeping close to his person.  
  
Éomer glanced worriedly between orb and hobbit for several minutes, frowning. It would do young Pippin no good to meddle with things he could not have. At his side, Merry nudged him impatiently, a slice of cheese held in his hand. Pippin shook himself and accepted the food, gobbling it down quickly. Éomer set his fears aside; it was no good imagining more problems than already existed.  
  
Théoden had also detected the Halfling’s gaze, and commented on it. “The draw of what is forbidden appeals to even the strongest. You were not immune to it yourself, as I recall.”  
  
“No,” Éomer agreed darkly, “and neither was Théodred.”  
  
\--  
  
“Oh, come on, Éomer,” Théodred pleaded. “Father wouldn’t even notice. Please?”  
  
Éomer looked levelly at his cousin, thinking rapidly. What Théodred was asking could easily get them killed. “I don’t know,” he said doubtfully. “We were told to stay here.”  
  
Théodred scowled. “Why do you always have to do as you’re told?”  
  
“I do it because I know what’s good for me,” Éomer retorted heatedly.  
  
“When are you going to grow up?” his cousin snorted. “You’re nearly as old as Father was when he first rode with his own sire, and I’m not too far behind.”  
  
“Aye,” nodded Éomer. “Tis so.”  
  
It had been nearly two years since Éomer and Éowyn had arrived at Théoden’s doorstep, two wet and bedraggled orphans. Now Éowyn was loved and adored by all, and Éomer was distinguishing himself as a formidable swordsman. Visiting noblemen could see no difference in treatment between the three children, and it was often assumed that Éomer was heir to the throne. Thankfully, the older boy was not one to become bitter, or some rather serious rivalry might have transpired.  
  
The strong friendship between Théodred and Éomer was evident to all. If there was any discord between them, the most likely cause what the intense difference in personality. While Éomer was naturally more cautious and reserved, his younger cousin had the fiery and tempestuous Eorl spirit, and tended to do things in a brash and headstrong manner. But even with these dissimilarities, the two boys seemed to bring out the best in each other, except in times such as these.  
  
“Fine,” said Théodred. “I’ll go on my own.”  
  
“Won’t make a difference to me,” muttered Éomer. He turned to leave, but was pulled back by his cousin’s voice.  
  
“You’re just too much of a coward,” he shouted. “Admit it!”  
  
So fast that he surprised even himself, Éomer was on top of Théodred, pinning him to the ground. “Say that to my face, cousin,” he spat.  
  
“You…are…a coward.” Théodred ground out each word slowly, relishing the wince on his cousin’s face. He knew that the surest way to trap Éomer into a rash decision was to make him angry.  
  
What he hadn’t counted on was Éomer’s strong fist connecting with his jaw.  
  
-  
  
Dressed as Riders of the Mark, the two cousins crept slowly through the stables. Somewhere outside the city wall, Théoden was mustering his men–two full éoreds at least–and they wanted to stay as far away as possible until the last moment. The less they mingled with the other men, the less chance there was of being caught. Silently, the boys harnessed their horses and led them out into the courtyard. The king’s strong voice could be heard, echoing across the plains.  
  
“We’ll be able to hear better up on the wall,” whispered Théodred. Éomer nodded, swiftly climbing the ladder onto the wall. Beneath them lay the vast expanse of Rohan.  
  
“This outrage cannot go on,” Théoden was telling his men. “They are a plague on this land, killing off our cattle and burning our crops. To make matters worse, now they are killing off the innocent women and children. We must stop them!” Cheers of approval resounded through the crowd. “Let’s get to it, then. Forth Eorlingas!”  
  
Standing on the wall, Éomer felt a rush of intense pride roll through him. Glancing over at Théodred, he could see that his cousin felt the same way. “We should go,” he said. “They’ll be out of sight before long.”  
  
The two boys swung hastily onto their mounts and sped out the city gates, careful not to attract attention. As Éomer had expected, the Riders were already well on their way. Keeping well out of the moon’s all-revealing light, he and Théodred followed the contingent of soldiers. They were headed to the mountains near Helm’s Deep, where a group of wildmen from the north were ransacking the various hamlets. All through the night Théoden led them–soldier and boy alike believing in a victory come morning.  
  
Just as the sun was peeping over the eastern hills, the company of Rohirrim halted. Éomer dismounted wearily, rubbing his sore back and buttocks. He was an excellent rider, but wasn’t accustomed to the long hours of sitting astride that he’d just been through.  
  
“Come on,” Théodred urged. He led his horse and Éomer through the densely packed crowd of men. They stopped in the center and remounted, trying to look as if they belonged.  
  
“You shouldn’t be here, boys,” someone said from Théodred’s side. Éomer’s stomach dropped. Had they been recognized so soon? Taking a closer look, he saw that it was only Grig, their sword craft instructor. He ducked his head and tried not to grin.  
  
“We only wanted to test our skills with the blade,” Théodred improvised, somewhat believably.  
  
“I’m sure,” replied Grig. “Just be sure to stay away from the king. He doesn’t need you two to hamper him from concentrating on the battle.”  
  
“Yes sir,” they promised softly. “I’ll be sure to tell you about my killings,” Théodred added boastfully.  
  
What happened next was difficult to understand. All Éomer saw was the sudden flash of an arrow and a man dropping dead. Satisfied roars came from above his head. The hillmen were ambushing. With a single cry, the king raced towards the enemy, Rohirrim at his heels  
  
In spite of the abruptness of it all, Éomer did quite well. Fearlessly he fought with and equaled men three and four times his age.  
  
Théodred, however, did not fare as well .For all his boasting and claims of courage, he was reduced to a puddle of terror at the sight of the advancing enemy. Very miserable, he hauled himself under a convenient outcropping to wait out the fight.  
  
Though the hillmen fought with a fierceness that attested their hatred towards the people of Rohan, they were no match for them. In a short matter of time, they were vanquished thoroughly. At the declaration of victory, Éomer cheered loudly with everyone else, but his triumph was cut short by Grig’s surly face and determined hand. The man towed the protesting boy straight to the king. While greatly displeased, it was hard for Théoden to hide the delight he felt on seeing Éomer’s success.  
  
“You fought bravely, lad,” said his uncle, and Éomer flushed happily.  
  
“Thank you, my lord,” he said quietly. “You honor me.”  
  
“But twas a foolish thing to do,” Théoden said more severely, frowning down at his nephew. “Something tells me that this was not entirely your doing.”  
  
Shamed, Éomer looked at his feet. “Théodred came along too, sire.”  
  
Hah!” Théoden nodded. “Well,” he glanced around, searching for his son, “bring him forward.”  
Of course, young Théodred was nowhere to be found, as he was still huddled under the stony ledge. He would have been left behind altogether had it not been for Éomer’s sharp eyes. Théoden wordlessly dragged his son up to sit behind him and Éomer couldn’t help feeling pity for the younger child.  
  
Once they were back at Edoras, the boys were given a well deserved beating–officiated by a very smug looking Grig–and forbidden to traverse outside of Meduseld for an undetermined length of time. Éomer was given the honor of joining in the ranks of the First Mark of Rohan, and no one ever–no matter how reluctant to engage in a fight he was–doubted Éomer’s courage again, least of all Théodred.  
  
\--  
  
“Aye,” agreed Théoden sadly. “Most children cannot resist the temptation of becoming something greater.”  
  
The two men picked themselves up and reharnessed their mounts. Éomer helped Merry into the saddle and climbed on after. As he rode through the dimly lit forest, he noticed curiously that there were several rows of strange bare footprints, seemingly made by a Man or Elf. Was it possible that Gandalf was taking them to meet yet another stranger?”  
  
Note: In reality, Éomund actually died before Théoden.


	3. Part II: Morehtelé

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Under the gloomy eaves of Fangorn Forest reside many secrets, most of which are best forgotten. After an unexpected meeting, omer is put in the midst of a web of secrets, and is desperate to find the answers. But some things are better left unspoken.

The Lady of Fangorn  
Part II: Morehtelé  
  
The frosty air of the dawn created soft plumes of steam on Éomer’s lips, along with those of his seven companions. They had all–with the exception of Pippin–woken early and were now putting on saddles and tightening bridles. As he worked, Éomer talked in a whisper to his mare–Firefoot her name was–speaking in Rohirric.  
  
“Will we get there today?” Pippin asked complainingly. He hadn’t greatly appreciated the wizard’s method of waking him up: throwing icy water from the brook onto the unsuspecting and snoring Hobbit.  
  
“Cheer up, Peregrin,” Gandalf said from Shadowfax’s side. “Where I’m taking you, there will surely be more food that even you could eat.” His grizzled gray head appeared over the white horse’s back. “And yes, I’m expecting to arrive well before nightfall.”  
  
“Good,” sighed Merry in relief. Éomer offered to lift the Halfling onto Firefoot’s back, but he shook his head. “My lord, Théoden told me I could ride with him this day,” he explained apologetically.  
  
“As you wish, Master Merry,” Éomer said cheerfully. He wasn’t the sort of man who angered easily or without good cause. “But I must warn you,” he knelt down to look the Hobbit directly in the eye, “my uncle had a frightful temper. Do try not to wake it.”  
  
Merry grinned widely and glanced amusedly back to Théoden, who looked on curiously. “I shall try my best, sir.”  
  
Chuckling quietly, Éomer leapt onto Firefoot’s back and followed Gandalf’s lead. Several times of the course of the day, he caught glimpses of the same bare-footed prints he’d witnessed the day before. He wanted to ask Gandalf if it was a person they were going to see and if that person had made the prints, but the old wizard was too far away, and Éomer knew he would be too shy to voice his questions anyway. He did not have the close relationship with Gandalf the other did, but he wished for it.  
  
Somehow, the northern part of Fangorn seemed brighter and happier. Perhaps the farther one gets from Saruman’s treachery, the less corrupted the forest becomes. Even the grass as this end of the woods seemed lusher, with delicate flowers dotting the shaded floor. So remarkable was the difference, Éomer felt he must comment on it.  
  
“Aye,” Gandalf replied, “different powers are at work here.” That cryptic statement was all he would say, though Pippin–who was riding with the wizard–pressed him continually.  
  
The company stopped for a midday meal, during which time Legolas remarked on the various beauties of Fangorn several times.”This forest is splendid,” he observed, though by now not many of his friends were still listening. “What secrets must lie under the eaves of this place.”  
  
“I doubt you could see them all,” Gandalf said, “not even with a lifetime such as yours.” The wizard glanced up hastily, shaking his gray head. “No, Legolas, I do not believe that you should delve too deeply into the mysteries of Fangorn. Despite the invitation Treebeard gave, I think that in-depth exploration should be delayed for the time being.”  
  
These words were met with solemn expressions by all, except for Pippin. That young Hobbit laughed loudly and heartily. He seemed to find it all the more amusing when Gandalf demanded to know what he “found so humorous in the situation.” Finally, Pippin found he could speak past his choking giggles.  
  
“Here all of you are,” he explained, “acting so serious and grave, while really all Gandalf is doing is hiding something he doesn’t want you to find.”  
  
With a flash of surprise, Éomer realized that this Halfling–who seemed to have nothing in his head but eating and drinking–had hit on Gandalf’s motives quite squarely. Of course, he would never say as much. There was a small vein of tact living inside him, though it wasn’t often that it asserted itself. And as he rode under the dreary canopy of Fangorn, listening idly to Théoden and Merry’s conversation–the spontaneous questions that the little Hobbit tried to answer with somber decorum–Éomer couldn’t help wondering what exactly it was that Gandalf so desperately wanted to hide.  
  
Thoughts still on the wizard’s obvious concealment, Éomer hardly noticed the soft, wistful notes that wound through the forest. To his uneducated ear, the instrument being played was similar to a flute, but with a wilder and more haunting tone. It was beautiful.  
  
“What is it?” Gimli demanded. “Is this place entirely safe?”  
  
“No, Gimli,” answered Gandalf. “But what place is truly safe and free from all danger?”  
  
The Dwarf nodded and no more was said on the matter, but Éomer couldn’t shake his feeling of menace. Beautiful though the music was, he couldn’t help but to feel that there was danger in every note. This feeling might have simply resulted from Fangorn’s gloom, therefore having nothing to do with the poignant melody.  
  
Onward they continued, riding to the ever-increasing volume of the song. There wasn’t a doubt in anyone’s mind that Gandalf was taking them to see whoever was playing the instrument. Éomer wondered briefly if there might be a sorcerer living near here–one that traipsed around with no shoes. A relation of Gandalf’s perhaps.  
  
Suddenly Éomer found himself in a clearing, the sun shining gloriously onto his face. And there, seated on the sweet-smelling grass, was a girl. Her feet were bare and her rich brown hair was unbound. When she looked up, he could see that her eyes were of the wildest and untamed hazel.  
  
“Mithrandir!” she greeted the wizard. “What are you doing here?”  
  
“I need to speak with your mistress,” he stated. “It’s rather important and pressing.”  
  
“Of course.” The girl stood, and Éomer could see that she held a sort of hand-crafted pipe. “Wait here.”  
  
“Thank you, Lindissë,” Gandalf said, bowing from atop Shadowfax. The girl – Lindissë – ran off into the woods, leaving the eight of them alone.  
  
“Who was that?” Merry asked in alarm. All at once, questions began spouting from everyone. It was only Éomer and Aragorn who remained silent. The two men gazed at each other, bewilderment evident on their faces.  
  
Laughter rang sweetly through the forest and all talk stopped abruptly. A woman stepped through the trees, followed closely by Lindissë, though Éomer hardly noted her, so transfixed by the other person he was. She was tall and slender, glowing with a radiance that seemed to surpass the sun. Gandalf knelt, and the rest followed suit.  
  
The Elf–for that was her race–smiled and motioned for them to rise. “Welcome, Mithrandir,” she said. “It has been many years since you last walked among these trees.”  
  
“Too long, it seems to me.” Gandalf bowed.  
  
Still smiling, she turned to face the others of the company, addressing the king first. “Théoden, Lord of Rohan.” He nodded slowly. “Aragorn, son of Arathorn. Elfstone.” Strider blinked, but made no other movement. “Meriadoc and Peregrin, noble Shire-folk.” The Halflings blushed. “Éomer, son of Éomund; Gimli, son of Gloin.”  
  
She came to the last member of the party, but when her eyes caught sight of him, her face drained to the color of snow.  
  
“Tharanduil?” She gasped faintly. “Is it you?”  
  
Legolas shook his head in confusion, his brow furrowed. “Nay, I am called Legolas, though Tharanduil is my father.”  
  
Color returned to her face, as did the smile. “Welcome, I am Míriel Úmanyar. Fangorn has been my home for many years now. May you find rest under these trees.”  
  
Awe was on every face; even Gandalf looked amazed. Míriel wordlessly turned and led them. Éomer observed once again that the scenery was less dank and grim the in the south. Perhaps Míriel had the ability to influence the things around her.  
  
Éomer couldn’t help staring at the back of Míriel’s head as they walked beneath the green tree boughs. There was beauty in her that could not be ignored. Théoden fell in step beside him, and he could see both the wonder and dazzlement in his uncle’s eyes. Obviously he was not the only one affected by the Elf.  
  
“What is she?” asked Théoden, reverting back to their native Rohirric.  
  
Éomer chuckled. Did his uncle think he would know the answer? “I believe she’s already been established as an Elf?” he said sarcastically.  
  
Théoden snorted and said no more. His sense of humor had all but deserted him under the wrathful hand of Gríma Wormtongue. Éomer shook his head sadly. The days of happiness under the roof of Meduseld had been short lived. The years when Gríma had stayed in court had been the worst days he could remember.  
  
Éomer’s mind shifted back to the Elf. Why had Míriel seemed so alarmed to see Legolas? What was her connection with the other Elf? Try as he might, no plausible reason could enter his mind, though his knowledge of Elven lore was very limited. He suspected that it was a mystery that was going to be hard to unravel.  
  
Míriel stopped outside the mouth of a looming cave. She said something to Lindissë and the girl scurried off, disappearing inside the cavern. Turning slowly to Gandalf, Míriel gestured after her servant. “There lies my home. Morehtelé, I have named it; it means dark-spring in the Common Tongue.”  
  
The wizard smiled faintly. “Your courtesy does us great honor, my lady. Rest assured that whatever provision you can spare will be greatly appreciated.”  
  
As they entered the cave, Éomer was blinded by the sudden lack of light. Slowly, his eyes adjusted and he was able to take stock of his surroundings. The floors were lined with mats of soft fur, and the walls were covered with exquisite paintings. Farther along, the cave widened into what Éomer suspected was the great hall, so to speak. Smaller passageways branched off, leading into smaller private chambers. Quick, pattering footsteps came from Éomer’s left, and he looked up to see Lindissë emerge, carrying a large bundle of cloth. She set it down in an obscure corner and went to her lady’s side.  
  
“Your chambers have been prepared,” Míriel announced. “I will leave you to rest and change into fresh garments. Food will be served shortly.” With that, she withdrew deeper into Morehtelé.  
  
“Lord Éomer, follow me please.”  
  
He glanced down and saw Lindissë’s wide eyes studying him curiously. “Yes of course,” stammered Éomer. “Lead the way.” She nodded and swiveled, heading down a dimly lit corridor.  
  
“Here is your room,” Lindissë announced. She pulled back a heavy drape, revealing a small apartment that was lit by a single flame. “I hope everything suits.”  
  
“It will be fine, I assure you,” Éomer said stiffly. The way she stared at him was unnerving. The thought that she had never before seen a man occurred to him, but he brushed it aside. She seemed familiar enough with Gandalf, and he was a man—or close to it.  
  
“Do you require anything else?” Lindissë asked palely. Éomer realized that he was glowering at the poor girl.  
  
“No,” he said kindly.” Everything is perfect, thank you, Lindissë.” She nodded and left the way she had come, feet padding almost soundlessly.  
  
“Sleep well, my lord.”  
  
Éomer did not sleep well. In his dreams he was accosted by overgrown Hobbits and faceless Orcs at every turn. When at last he did fall into a deep sleep, it was only a few hours until dawn. Morehtelé did not agree with him, it seemed.  
  
\--  
  
A gentle hand woke Éomer, and he turned to find himself gazing into Lindissë’s reserved face. She was brushing brightly, for no doubt she hadn’t entered this chamber on her own choice. He frowned in confusion. Why was she visiting him in the middle of the night?  
  
“What is it?” Éomer croaked groggily.  
  
Lindissë blushed deeper. “My lady bids you to come break your fast with her and your company...”  
  
“What time is it?” He leapt out of bed, searching frantically for his outer-tunic. “How long has everyone else been awake?”  
  
“The sun rose but a short while ago, and your companions were awakened at the dawn by my lady’s song.” She smiled sympathetically at Éomer’s embarrassment. “Your room is farther back than the others. The song most likely couldn’t reach your ears.”  
  
Éomer smiled self-deprecatingly at her words. Throwing on his boots, he turned to Lindissë. “Will you take me?” he asked. She didn’t answer. He looked up in irritation, only to find her fingering the medallion he’d received when his grandmother had passed on. He’d worn it continually since then, but the weight of the heavy gold had created a sore on his neck, so he’d had to take it off the night before. Anger rushed through him.  
  
“Do not touch that,” Éomer snapped harshly. Who did this girl think she was? How dare she touch things she had no right to? Had she no sense of propriety.  
  
Lindissë looked up, reddening instantly. The medallion slipped from her fingers and clattered to the stone floor noisily. She cried out in horror and bent to retrieve it, but Éomer was quicker. He studied the soft gold, looking for blemishes.  
  
“Lord Éomer!” she cried remorsefully. “I’m so sorry. I did not mean to drop it.” Further words were spoken, but they trailed off into an unintelligible babble. What little Éomer could discern sounded like Elvish.  
  
He lifted it over his head and around his neck, satisfied that no damage had been done. He opened his mouth to reassure the girl, but she had sunk onto his bed, crying bitterly. Éomer sighed heavily and wrapped his arms around Lindissë. He had never been good at comforting, especially when tears were involved. Why do women always have to cry?  
  
“There, there,” he soothed, feeling like a fool. “No harm was done. Sorry I snapped at you.”  
  
Lindissë sniffled and glanced up through her wet eyelashes. “You’re sorry?” Shaking her head, she hiccoughed. “It is I who should apologize.”  
  
“No, I shouldn’t have made so much fuss over a simple trinket,” Éomer looked into her eyes gravely. “I struggle with my temper often. I should not have let it get the best of me.”  
  
The girl nodded shortly and wriggled out of his arms, obviously uncomfortable to be there. She stood briskly and smiled, though it was rather shaky. “Would you like to eat now, my lord?”  
  
“Yes please.” He stood and trailed Lindissë through the cool halls, wishing above anything else to undo the events that had just occurred.  
  
Éomer had been gifted with a healthy dose of the Eorl pride and spirit, although it had not shown itself until after Gríma had arrived. The way the man had treated Éowyn, not to mention himself had been unbearable. Oftentimes, he and Théodred had stayed up all night, plotting the murder of the king’s trusted assistant. Of course, they both had too much honor to actually commit the crime, but the desire took root into their hearts, and planted seeds of fury and bitterness.  
  
“I’m sorry.” Éomer felt the need to apologize again. “I don’t know what happened to me.”  
  
“Oh, but I do,” she said solemnly. “The atmosphere my lady has created here at Morehtelé bring out your deepest and most private emotions. Do not feel alarmed, my lord, often times my actions are far more shaming than anything you have done.”  
  
“What could you have done, Lindissë?” The man couldn’t help asking. She seemed so innocent, so far removed from the events going on just outside her forest. The worst Éomer could see her doing was speaking too loudly in her mistress’s presence. “What could you have to be ashamed of?” He glanced sideways at her, and was surprised to see tears trickling down her cheeks.  
  
Instead of explaining the reason for her tears, she laughed. “I’m a fool. What is more humiliating than that?”  
  
“Making a woman cry over something as trivial as a neck-collar.”  
  
Lindissë laughed again. “You are too kind. It was my own overreaction and had nothing to do with you. I’ve just been very uneasy lately. Even in Fangorn, whispers of the outside world can be heard.”  
  
They were now standing in the great hall. Éomer’s companions were seated around a low table, laughing over something Pippin was saying. All of them were so noticed by the Hobbit’s antics that they didn’t notice the two newcomers. Míriel did, though, and she rose and faced them with an odd look on her face. If Éomer hadn’t known better, he would have assumed that the Elf had witnessed everything that had just happened.  
  
“It is well that you were awake, Éomer,” Míriel said sternly. “You have missed much.”  
  
“Forgive me, Lady Míriel,” he said, blushing deeply. “I have not gotten much rest in the past days.”  
  
“So your friends have informed me,” she smiled. “Go, food has been saved for you.”  
  
“Many thanks, my lady,” Éomer said gratefully. “I don’t imagine that it was easy to keep the Halflings at bay.”  
  
“No,” agreed Míriel, “but they were told that if you didn’t awaken by noon, they could eat your share.”  
  
“Then I’d best get to it,” he said, “for the sun will not halt for a starving man, even if it would benefit two very undeserving Hobbits.” Éomer strode over to the table and took a bite of the fresh bread, keeping an eye on the two women.  
  
They exchanged some time, at one point growing rather heated. They parted with Lindissë rushing off to the back of the cavern, and Míriel gliding peacefully back to the table. Éomer was confused at the conversation and its resolution. Was it possible that Lindissë had done something to anger her mistress? Lindissë, the girl who burst into tears when a man snapped at her.  
  
“Éomer?”  
  
The man looked down to see Merry looking up at his face worriedly. “I’m sorry, what were you saying?”  
  
“We were planning on a course of action,” Gandalf told him. “Sauron’s defeat at Helm’s Deep will only bring wrath down on all our heads. There is no way of knowing where he will strike next, but the most probable course of action would be somewhere in Gondor. It is there that the last strength of men lies, Rohan excepted.”  
  
“The Steward of Gondor is aging and much troubled by the past,” Éomer observed. “Our emissaries are not met with much respect.”  
  
“Aye,” acknowledged Théoden. “It got so bad in recent years that Gríma Wormtongue was forced to stop all communications or face open war. Despite his evil intentions, the man did have some form of wisdom, though it seldom was obvious.”  
  
“He was a man before he was a snake,” Éomer commented dryly. “I know it doesn’t seem so, but I remember what he was like before Saruman got his clutches on him. Éowyn and I used to have splendid mock fights with him. A finer person couldn’t have been found in all of Rohan.”  
  
At the mention of Théoden’s niece, Aragorn stiffened visibly. Éomer knew that his younger sibling was in love with the man, but his stance on the matter was hidden from view. Personally, Éomer wanted to confront the older man and demand he stop toying with Éowyn, but it would be unfounded. Aragorn had shown no sign of return to any of his sister’s advances.  
  
“Be that as it may,” the Ranger said in his quiet way, “I do think that if you send a convincing enough argument to Minas Tirith, you will get results.”  
  
“But who do we send?” Gandalf queried. “You, Aragorn, would not be welcomed; Legolas as an Elf would not be trusted, and I most certainly cannot go. Too often have I visited Gondor, much to the dismay of the Steward. Denethor does not take pleasure in my presence, I believe.”  
  
“I will go,” volunteered Théoden. “He will heed the advice of the King of Rohan.”  
  
“Nay,” the wizard disagreed. “It is safe to say that Denethor would view your well-meant advice as a threat.”  
  
“Then what is to be done?” Éomer questioned. “None of us may go, and Denethor won’t listen to a common messenger. Is there no hope?”  
  
“There is always hope,” Míriel said from her place at the end of the table. “Hope is oftentimes like a flower. It stays dormant for many moons, waiting for its chance to revive; and when the spring comes, hope blossoms anew. We must always be sure to keep faith; else our souls will become discouraged.”  
  
“Aye,” Legolas said softly. “That is the way of things.” His wide blue eyes met the other Elf’s, and there seemed to be a silent exchange between them. Míriel paled once again, glancing sadly down at the table. “I’m sure that a plan will form in due time.”  
  
“Yes,” Míriel murmured. She looked up and locked eyes with Aragorn. “And now, Aragorn, I should like to see your sword. Long has it been since Narsil, the sword of light, has been in my presence.”  
  
Slowly, as if he was unwilling to give up the precious weapon, Aragorn drew his sword out from under his cloak. “Andúril, the flame of the west.” He presented the sword to Míriel, who grasped it with a firm hand.  
  
The Elf swung it around her head, obviously well-pleased by the craftsmanship. “This is a noble weapon. Carry it well, Aragorn son of Arathorn. You strive for higher things with this blade. I can only trust that they will come to fruition.” She offered Andúril back to the man, who was looking at her in awe.  
  
“Thank you, my lady,” he said. “That is my wish as well.”  
  
Merry and Pippin started to argue over the last seedcake, and the moment was lost. Éomer turned his attention to the Hobbits and watched the drama unfold with an interested eye. It was the first time he’d seen either Merry or Pippin become angry, and it was rather comical. Food appears to be the only thing that sparks their anger, thought Éomer.  
  
“You’re growing far too fat,” Pippin stated loudly. “Before long, you’ll start to look like Sam Gamgee.”  
  
“And I suppose the same won’t happen to you, Peregrin Took!” Merry challenged angrily. “That’s very sound logic you’re using there, Pip.”  
  
“You’ve had more than me!” The younger Hobbit tried a different approach. “It’s not fair.”  
  
“That’s because I’m taller and stouter,” returned Merry calmly. “You don’t need as much.”  
  
This argument would have continued for quite some time, most likely ending in a fistfight had Lindissë not arrived at that moment bearing a fresh platter of cakes.  
  
“No to worry, my lords,” she said laughingly. “We have plenty. You may eat as much as you wish.”  
  
“Why, thank you, Lindissë,” Pippin said gratefully. He scooped a pile of the dainties onto his plate and then offered the platter to his comrade. “Here, Merry. Would you like some?”  
  
“Of course, Pip.” Merry grinned widely. “Be sure that we get the same amount, now.”  
  
Éomer tried to reign in his snort of laughter, but didn’t quite succeed. The sound that issued from his lips greatly resembled a choked sneeze. Only one minute ago, the Halflings had been ready to come to blows over a morsel of food, and now they were talking like nothing had ever been amiss.  
  
“Are you alright, Éomer?” Théoden asked with mock anxiousness. He knew perfectly well why his nephew was fighting for self-control. “You’re looking a little red in the face. Does your meal not agree with you?”  
  
“Yes,” gasped Éomer. His uncle’s words had only increased his urge to laugh. “I’m quite well. I’ve just got a piece of meat lodged in my throat.” He coughed quietly. “There.”  
  
At her mistress’s bidding, Lindissë began to clear the empty dishes from the table. Éomer discreetly kept his eyes on her, wondering. Such was such an odd creature. How had she come to be in the service of an Elf such as Míriel?”  
  
“Gandalf,” said Míriel, jolting Éomer out of his private thoughts. “I should like to see the Orthanc-stone, if you have it on the ready.”  
  
“I do,” the wizard replied. From underneath his chair, he produced the bundle Pippin had been so intent on the day before. He unwrapped it slowly, and set it on the table for all to see.  
  
The Orthanc-stone was a little over a foot in diameter, with a glossy tint on its black surface. A collective gasp came from around the table, for only Gandalf and Míriel were silent. Éomer noted that Lindissë was standing in a murky corner of the room, watching the stone as if she were enspelled.  
  
“So this is how Saruman spoke with the Dark Lord.” Míriel didn’t dare touch the palantír. Even she was afraid of Sauron and knew the consequences of such an action.  
  
“Indeed it is,” Gandalf said gravely. “For the Lord of Mordor has in his possession the Ithil-stone.”  
  
“It is tragic that any of the Seeing-stones should have fallen into the hands of the Enemy,” commented Théoden. “Such evil should not exist in this world.”  
  
“And yet it does,” Míriel said sadly. “For who could stand against the likes of Sauron the Deceiver?”  
  
“Though it is foolish, we must try,” Éomer said. “If we gave up altogether it would be honor less.”  
  
“What use is honor when your homeland has been stripped from you, and you’ve been driven out?” The Elf didn’t appear to be talking about the present, for her eyes were hazy and far-off, as if she remembered some past pain. “There is no honor in slavery.”  
  
“There is still a chance that that fate can be avoided,” insisted Éomer. “You have to believe that.”  
  
“I don’t have to believe in anything, son of man,” Míriel retorted. “You are not my master.”  
  
Éomer was silent. He didn’t want to argue with Míriel, but he didn’t want to let her continue on in this line of thinking either. But looking in to the stony eyes that dared him to give a response, he backed down. Realizing the tension in the air, Gandalf spoke next.  
  
“The point is,” he said, “we need every soul possible. This leads me to the reason I came here at all. Míriel, your wisdom is unsurpassed by almost everyone; would you come with us, wherever our final destination may be?  
  
All eyes were now on the Elf, waiting to hear her reply. Míriel’s eyes closed and her brow furrowed. It was obvious that great thought was being put into her decision. “What you say is not easy for me.” She pierced the wizard with a look that would have shattered the strongest mountain.  
  
“But these are not easy times,” Gandalf reasoned.  
  
“No, Mithrandir, I will not leave Morehtelé. I do have one favor to ask of you, though.”  
  
“What would that be?”  
  
“Nineteen years ago, I found a starving baby near Treebeard’s residence of Wellinghall and took her in. Since then, she has blossomed into a woman with a uniqueness that I have never witnessed in the race of Man. It probably comes of being raised by the likes of me, but still. I want you to take her with you; she needs to live with her own kind.”  
  
Lindissë appeared at her mistress’s side, a look of complete horror written on her face. “Please, my lady, send me not from your sight.” She grasped Míriel’s gown, begging pitifully.  
  
The Elf paid her handmaiden no attention, but simply kept gazing at Gandalf. The wizard was shaking his head angrily.  
  
“War is no time for her to be introduced to her kin,” he muttered. “But as I see there will be no leaving here unless I agree: very well, she may come.”  
  
“Good,” Míriel nodded. “Lindissë, go and fetch your belongings. I suspect you will be leaving shortly.”  
  
“Oh, but my lady,” the girl pleaded. “I do not wish to go.”  
  
“It matters not,” the Elf said coolly. “You are going. There will be no protest. “  
  
Lindissë nodded unhappily and ran off. Gandalf was already putting away the palantír and telling the others to prepare their horses. Éomer stood and walked back to the room he’d slept in the night before. He quickly donned his heavy cloak and found Firefoot, who whinnied happily at the sight of her master.  
  
Before long, Míriel came outside, leading a tearful Lindissë. The girl’s animal was a noble black stallion that seemed impatient to be on their way. Lindissë mounted him reluctantly and rode to where Gandalf and Shadowfax were ready.  
  
“Do not tarry,” advised Míriel. “I feel a foul edge in the wind.” She walked closer so that she could have a private word with the wizard. Éomer was close enough to hear what was said. “Do not be hesitant to seek my counsel, Mithrandir. My heart will travel with you, though my body cannot.”  
  
“I will remember that, Míriel.” The old wizard bowed his head. “I expect that I shall call upon you in the future.”  
  
“Go in haste,” the Elf whispered.  
  
Gandalf nodded and with a few soft words along Shadowfax’s neck, they were off. As he cantered away from Morehtelé, Éomer glanced back at Míriel, who still stood in the clearing. Her golden hair blew wildly in the wind and her gown fluttered around her slim frame. It was beautiful.


	4. Part III: Departures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Under the gloomy eaves of Fangorn Forest reside many secrets, most of which are best forgotten. After an unexpected meeting, omer is put in the midst of a web of secrets, and is desperate to find the answers. But some things are better left unspoken.

The Lady of Fangorn  
Part III: Departures  
  
That night they camped out on the open plains, the stars glittering solemnly from above. Gandalf had led them through the wild meadows outside of Fangorn for many leagues, stopping only when the River Entwash marred their way. Everyone was exhausted; only the Hobbits and Lindissë had any strength left. Merry and Pippin danced and capered around the fire, loudly singing the ballads of their people. These antics produced delighted laughter from the girl.  
  
“It appears that you two ruffians have found a friend,” Gimli observed, unsuccessfully hiding his amusement. “Though I daresay the lack of companionship never stopped either of you from enjoying yourselves in whatever way you wish.”  
  
Gandalf, who had been looking on, removed his pipe from his mouth. “Actually, I would say that they’ve matured a great deal since departing from the Shire. They’re certainly acting more their age.”  
  
“How old are you?” Éomer asked the Halflings curiously.  
  
“I’m nearly thirty-seven,” Merry informed him, halting in his song. “And Pip here is only twenty-nine, still in his tweens.”  
  
Everyone assembled chuckled at both Éomer and Lindissë’s surprised expression. Éomer was only twenty-eight. And as far as he could determine, Merry and Pippin were respectively seventeen and eleven years Lindissë's senior. The definitely didn’t act like it, and he himself was a little shocked at their ages. He observed the two Hobbits, noting worriedly that– despite his dancing and gambling–Pippin still glanced at the palantír, which was sitting next to the wizard. The frequency of those secretive looks was far too often.  
  
“Where are we going, Mithrandir?”  
  
Éomer looked up sharply. Ever since leaving Morehtelé, Lindissë hadn’t said a word to anyone besides the Halflings. It was evident to everyone that she hated being so far away from the sheltered gloom of Fangorn. Both he and his uncle had tried to draw her out of her shell, but with no results. The girl obviously wanted to be left alone.  
  
“We are traveling to the great fortress of Rohan: Helm’s Deep,” Gandalf answered. “There we will decide on our next move.”  
  
Lindissë nodded, but turned her attention back to Merry and Pippin. Éomer smiled slightly. It was apparent that she didn’t fully understand the wizard’s reply.  
  
“And when we arrive,” Gimli added, speaking to Legolas, “I will show you the wonders of the Glittering Caves. I doubt you have seen such a sight, my friend.”  
  
The Elf shook his head. “No, I have not. But I will find no enjoyment in such an exercise.” He smiled bleakly. “It would be best to wait until after the fate of Middle-earth has been decided.”  
  
“Aye, you’re right.” The Dwarf exhaled slowly. “We can wait until then.”  
  
Gandalf, who had been quietly conversing with Théoden and Aragorn, raised his head. “We should sleep while we may. Many miles still lay between us and Helm’s Deep.”  
  
Murmurs of agreement arose from the company, and Éomer pulled a thick woolen blanket from his pack. He wrapped it around himself and settled in a comfortable position. Off to his left he could hear Lindissë giggling at something Merry was telling her. Gandalf shushed the three of them, and the camp fell silent.  
  
\--  
  
A sharp, strangled cry jolted Éomer out of a sound sleep. In a matter of seconds he was on his feet, sword at the ready. Gandalf was shouting something about the Orthanc-stone being gone, and he felt his heart drop. It didn’t require much thought to know who the culprit was. He walked to where Pippin had been sleeping, but tripped over a limp form. It was the missing Hobbit.  
  
“Over here!” Éomer called. Gandalf was immediately at his side, a light from his staff illuminating Pippin’s face. The wizard threw his cloak over the palantír, which had rolled off to the side.  
  
“So this is the thief!” Gandalf’s tone relayed the seriousness of the situation.  
  
Éomer feared for the small Halfling. The wrath of a wizard wasn’t something to be aroused. Gandalf shook Pippin, but the Hobbit remained lifeless. “What mischief has he done?” the wizard muttered. He took Pippin’s hand and felt for a pulse. The he touched his brow. Suddenly the young Hobbit sat up, glancing at the pale faces surrounding him, alarmed.  
  
“It’s not for you, Saruman!” Pippin’s voice was a shrill monotone. “I will send for it. Do you understand?” He struggled and tried to stand, but Gandalf held the paper down.  
  
“Peregrin Took,” he said. “Come back.”  
  
At once the Hobbit settled down. “Gandalf,” he whispered, clinging to the wizard’s palm. “Forgive me.”  
  
“What did you see and what did you say? Gandalf asked urgently. They all stared at Pippin in silence, except for Merry. Éomer distractedly saw that the older Hobbit had returned to the half-alive fire.  
  
“Speak!” the wizard commanded.  
  
And then Pippin choked out the whole story. How the Enemy had spoke to him, and how he had told the Great Eye who he was. By the end of it all, the poor Hobbit had been reduced to a quivering mass of terror. At that, Gandalf kindly picked him up and set him down next to Merry. He said a few gentle words, and returned to the others, who were still circled around the Orthanc-stone.  
  
Aragorn was the first to find his voice. “How is Pippin?”  
  
“Hobbits have amazing recovery time. “Gandalf shrugged. “The memory of what he has just seen will fade, though I doubt that that is a good thing.” The wizard’s face changed as he looked upon the Ranger. “Will you take the Orthanc-stone and guard it? It is a dangerous task.”  
  
“To some, perhaps,” agreed Aragorn. “But there is one who may claim it. My hour draws closer, and I shall take it.”  
  
To Éomer’s astonishment, Gandalf bent down and retrieved the palantír, sure to keep it shrouded. The old wizard bowed as he presented it to Aragorn. It seemed to Éomer that as the Ranger grasped the Stone, he became taller and a fair light radiated from him.  
  
“What is to be done now?” Théoden inquired. “Sauron knows more than we would desire.”  
  
“No,” Gandalf countered solemnly. “The Enemy thought that Pippin was the Ringbearer, imprisoned in Isengard by Saruman. I fear that anywhere in the neighborhood of Orthanc is not safe. The Eye’s thoughts will be trained in the face and voice of the Hobbit. I think that it will be wise to ride ahead to Edoras with Peregrin at once.”  
  
“I will stay behind with the others,” decided Théoden. “We’ll go to Helm’s Deep as we’ve planned.”  
  
“As you wish,” said Gandalf, “but do not take long, the Enemy’s servants will not view you or your people in a good light once they learn of their defeat.”  
  
At that moment, a terrifying scream rent the air. Éomer glanced up to see a winged shadow circling over their heads. Lindissë, who had been standing unnoticed at his side, clutched his hand fearfully. He wished to assure her, but was unable to speak. A black chill had descended on the camp, silencing everyone. Gandalf alone kept a semblance of calm, hands clenched at his sides.  
  
“Nazgûl,” he breathed.  
  
Éomer wasn’t sure he heard the wizard correctly.  
  
“What?” asked Lindissë, her eyes saucering in horror.  
  
“The messenger of Mordor!” Gandalf shouted for everyone to hear. “Ride, you cannot wait until dawn. Ride!” He turned his eyes to Éomer. “Look to Míriel for guidance; she will know what to do.”  
  
With those words, the wizard grasped Pippin and all but threw him onto Shadowfax. In only a few moments, Gandalf and the Hobbit were traveling swiftly away. It seemed to Éomer that it had all been a dream. He turned to Lindissë, and loosened her grasp on his fingers.  
  
“Go and get anything you need,” he instructed. “There is no time to lose. Hurry!”  
  
She didn’t budge, and Éomer bit back frustration. How in the world did he get stuck with a timid girl such as Lindissë? Why couldn’t she be more like his sister? Éowyn was everything this girl was not: bold, courageous, and strong. Even the most fearful of his people had more backbone than this girl.  
  
“Éomer!” Théoden waved his hands towards his nephew. “Let’s go!”  
  
Éomer nodded shortly and hastily walked to Firefoot. Let her die there, he thought uncharitably. Gandalf had been the one who had promised to watch over Lindissë, not him. He rode out, following close on his uncle’s trail. It was only after they’d been riding for half an hour that he regretted his rashness. Mere words would not describe the relief Éomer felt when he saw Lindissë riding next to Legolas and Gimli.  
  
He didn’t even want to think about what would happen to him if the girl was left behind.  
  
“You are angry,” Aragorn observed from his side. “The girl cannot change who she is.”  
  
“Aye, you are right,” Éomer sighed. “My mind is heavily burdened, and I fear that it is showing itself with my dealings with Lindissë.”  
  
The Ranger nodded deeply. “Are you going back?”  
  
“Back?” Éomer’s brow creased in confusion.  
  
“To Morehtelé,” Aragorn clarified. “Gandalf told you to, though I can’t imagine why.”  
  
“Théoden will decide once we arrive at Helm’s Deep,” hedged Éomer. “I am not in that authority to choose.”  
  
Aragorn nodded and said nothing, instead picking up the pace he was going at. As Éomer stared at the other man’s back, he couldn’t help thinking that the Ranger had been the slightest bit disappointed in him.  
  
\--  
  
By the time the party of travelers had reached the great fortress of Helm’s Deep, the sun had already risen and set yet again. Merry, who was riding Firefoot along with Éomer, was disappointed that it was too dark to see any sign of the carnage that had taken place only three nights ago. To Éomer, it didn’t seem that the departure of the other Hobbit had affected Merry’s mood at all.  
  
“What does it look like?” the Halfling asked anxiously. “Is there a great deal of damage?”  
  
“Gandalf was right.” Éomer shook his head in stupefaction. “Hobbits truly are the most unquenchable creatures.”  
  
“Yes, yes,” said Merry dismissively. “But answer my question, please.”  
  
“You will see soon enough, come morning,” Éomer answered. “I honestly couldn’t tell you myself. I’m sure that a great deal of the mayhem has been cleared in the last few days.”  
  
“Fine,” the Halfling huffed. He was silent for a while, but then Éomer could feel him stiffen expectantly. “There will be food, won’t there?”  
  
The man roared in laughter, which brought curious glances from the others. “Yes, Master Merry,” he gasped finally, still chuckling. “I’m positive that some sort of food will be available.”  
  
“Good,” Merry sighed.  
  
At the gates, they were met by several me bearing gleaming torches. Words of congratulations for Théoden were on every man’s lips. While they were not as refined as Gondorians, the Rohirrim were kind and thoughtful. Éomer would be proud to serve as their king someday.  
  
“My lord!” A man approached Aragorn with a look of wonder on his face. “Just this day, men have arrived from the far north, led by two Elves. They claim to be the Dúnedain, your relatives.”  
  
“Indeed they are,” the Ranger cried gladly. “And it is well that they have come, for we can use every sword that volunteers.”  
  
“Aye,” agreed Théoden. “Very well, take us to these men. I would very much like to meet them.”  
  
Quickly, the group was ushered to the Hornburg. Almost as soon as they had dismounted, Aragorn was greeted boisterously by a man, who embraced him tightly.  
  
“Halbarad!” shouted Aragorn.  
  
Éomer started. Never before had he seen the older man behave in such a manner. It was as if he was a boy once more, exuberant and jolly.  
  
“The very same,” replied the man. “How do you fare?”  
  
“Mush as I always have.” Aragorn swung around to face the king. “My Lord Théoden, I present to you Halbarad, Ranger of the North.”  
  
“Well met, my lord,” the king said graciously. “You are welcome, especially in this time of need.”  
  
“My thanks, and those of my companions,” Halbarad said, bowing low.  
  
With the formalities over, everyone scattered to their various tasks. Éomer took Merry into the kitchens, as the Hobbit was growing anxious for a bite to eat. Lindissë followed, obviously uncomfortable in the presence of strangers. Merry however, seemed oblivious, and once provided with a mug of ale and some bread, dug in with a ferocity that surprised the man, though he’d been in his company for a few days already.  
  
“Goodness,” chuckled Éomer. “You act as if this is going to be your last meal.”  
  
“I’ve learned something over the past months,” the Halfling shrugged, his mouth full. “You never know when the opportunity to eat will come back around, so you’d better be prepared.” Merry took a big gulp of ale. “Especially when Strider is around.”  
  
The three of them were silent, each seeming to be lost in their thoughts. Not that Lindissë ever has much to say. Éomer frowned, looking across the table at the girl. She was sitting meekly, arms folded across her chest, a look of complete discomfort on her brow.  
  
Thankfully, at that moment, Legolas and Gimli appeared, bringing with them a brighter mood.  
  
“A cheerful lot you are,” the Dwarf grumbled good-naturedly. “You’d find more smiles in a dungeon, I wager.”  
  
A strange look crossed Lindissë’s face, and she shuddered, causing Éomer to wonder what secrets her past contained to make her flinch at Gimli’s well-meant jest. For the first time in hours, words left her mouth, but they were unintelligible. She was speaking in Elvish again.  
  
Legolas raised his brows and responded in the same language. Smiling widely, Lindissë began to rattle off in Elvish, all restraints gone. Apparently, the Common Tongue was not her primary form of speech. Since she had been living with an Elf, it shouldn’t have surprised Éomer, but it did. It was hard to relate Míriel’s stately elegance with Lindissë’s submissive timidity.  
  
“Théoden asked me to tell you that the council will be starting shortly,” Gimli said, choosing to ignore his friend’s conversation.  
  
“Am I to go?” Merry asked eagerly.  
  
“I see no reason why not,” shrugged Gimli. “Just be sure not to act as stupidly as you have in the past.”  
  
Merry sniffed, but made no reply, hastily finishing off his food. He nodded companionably to Lindissë and followed Éomer to the council hall, where everyone was already gathered.  
  
“We may have won the battle, but I’m afraid the war has just begun.” The king stood, surveying the faces around him gravely. “Gandalf has ridden ahead to Edoras, hopefully avoiding the threat that looms over all of our heads. Our task is to muster the Rohirrim, for we will ride to the aid of Gondor–whether they will it or not.”  
  
“The full Éoherë?”questioned Éomer, referring to a full muster or the Riders of Rohan. Altogether, Rohan had about ten thousand Riders.  
  
Théoden shook his head. “As much as I would like to do that, some men must be left behind in case of a surprise attack. Six thousand men will accompany me to Gondor. Already, troops are gathering in the valley of Harrowdale; I am to join them soon.”  
  
Aragorn stood, hesitating. “My lord, I fear that a new course had been laid before me.”  
  
“What do you mean?” asked the king.  
  
“I am going to seek the Paths of the Dead,” the Ranger announced grimly. A collective gasp came from the others.  
  
Éomer felt intense horror overcome him. They were not called the Paths of the Dead for no reason. “I thought we were to ride into battle together,” he said. While Aragorn wasn’t his closest of dearest friend, he was still close to his heart.  
  
“That is what I had thought, and indeed hoped for,” Aragorn sighed, “but my kindred and I have our own road to take, even if it pains me.”  
  
Éomer exhaled deeply. The possibility that he would never see the Ranger again was very great. Of course, it wouldn’t do to say anything so cryptic. Everyone present was already down-trodden enough.  
  
“Very well,” Théoden said. “There is nothing I can do to stop you, but I would caution you against such actions.”  
  
  
“I’m afraid that my mind is made up, and nothing you can say will change it.” Aragorn settled back down, stretching his long legs before him. Éomer caught a curious gleam in his gray eyes, and felt dread enter his mind. “What are you going to do about Gandalf’s words, Éomer?”  
  
Feeling the blood rush from his face, Éomer shrugged. “I’m not sure,” he admitted.  
  
“What’s going on?” growled Théoden, frowning down at the two younger men. “Do you have something to share with us, nephew?”  
  
Éomer shot a glare in Aragorn’s direction. “Just before he rode off, Gandalf mentioned that we should seek the Lady Míriel’s guidance in his absence.”  
  
“I see,” the king frowned.  
  
“What does she have to do with anything?” Gimli asked in his gruff way. “She’s a virtual recluse. I doubt she has any knowledge of warfare or politics.”  
  
“But Gandalf had to have a reason,” interjected Legolas. “I can’t see what it might be, but Míriel must have the ability to be of some help to us.”  
  
  
“Aye,” Théoden agreed, “yet I cannot imagine what it might be.” He skewered Éomer with his sharp gaze. “You’d best go and fetch her then, Éomer. We will await you at Edoras, and if you hurry you might arrive before us. It should take some time for me to finish things here.”  
  
“Yes, uncle,” Éomer said.  
  
Since there was little else to discuss, he exited the chamber, mentally calculating how many hours it would take him to reach Morehtelé.


	5. Part IV: Secrecy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Under the gloomy eaves of Fangorn Forest reside many secrets, most of which are best forgotten. After an unexpected meeting, omer is put in the midst of a web of secrets, and is desperate to find the answers. But some things are better left unspoken.

The Lady of Fangorn  
Part IV: Secrecy  
  
In all actuality, Helm’s Deep had no stables. The steep, rocky layout of the city did not accommodate for it, but large open halls had been provided for the horses. It was still known as the stables, though it was nothing more than an empty building. In any case, most of the inhabitants of the fortress were too poor to afford the expense necessary for the upkeep of a large animal. Only the rich had horses, most of which were housed in the King’s Stables.  
  
It was to this apartment that Éomer went to upon exiting the council chamber. He could see no reason to stay longer than he needed to, and so went reluctantly to set out on the task before him. His sister, Éowyn, was still at Edoras, and he’d been anxious to see her. He hadn’t spoken with her since his banishment by Gríma, which had been almost a week ago. Normally, he and Éowyn spent every free moment together. There was also the cheerful presence of Pippin to look forward to. Gandalf had only ridden away a short while ago, but Éomer already missed the Hobbit’s strong laughter and sense of humor.  
  
Saddling Firefoot hurriedly, Éomer thought confusedly about the Elf, Míriel. He wasn’t much acquainted with the traditions of the Fair Folk, but he knew enough to realize that Míriel’s isolated existence was not common among her kind. Something must have happened to make her abandon her as she so obviously had. But what in Middle-earth could be strong enough to keep her from her own family? For surely Míriel had some form of family, however distantly related they might be.  
  
Firefoot stamped her hoof harshly, making Éomer to look up. Lindissë was standing outside the makeshift stall, her eyes wide and persuasive.  
  
“They tell me that you are going back to Morehtelé,” she stated. “Why?”  
  
Wondering at the abrupt mode of her speech, Éomer smirked. He should have known better that to expect a clean getaway. Lindissë missed her home too much. “Gandalf told me to ask Lady Míriel to help us, now that he has gone.”  
  
“But Mithrandir has only traveled ahead to Edoras,” objected Lindissë, quite brilliantly. Nobody else in the council chamber had mentioned, or even remembered that point. “Surely you won’t need guidance to reach the city?”  
  
Éomer shrugged, speculating privately what the girl had against Míriel leaving Fangorn. “I’m not privy to Gandalf’s thoughts, much less the reasoning behind them.”  
  
She nodded, seeing that he wasn’t going to say anything more on the issue. “Take me with you, then,” she requested.  
  
“No,” Éomer said determinedly. “You would only slow me down. Speed is of the essence, and every minute is precious.”  
  
“I can help you persuade my lady,” reasoned Lindissë. “She isn’t likely to come, even if Mithrandir did ask her to.”  
  
“Then why should your presence change matters?” Éomer raised his brows quizzically. What was this girl up to?  
  
Flushing, Lindissë shuffled her feet. “I…” she hesitated. “I just want to see it again, before everything changes.”  
  
A strange feeling of pity crossed Éomer’s mind. Out of everyone he knew, Lindissë was likely going to lose the most. She had no family, no friends, and no livelihood. All she had was Míriel, and her refuge in the forest. If Sauron was not defeated, he life would end entirely, as it would if the opposite happened.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Éomer said, using a gentler tone. “But your place is here. You’ll be safer with my uncle and the others. Even now, Rohan isn’t completely danger free.”  
  
Lindissë scowled, taking his comment for the lame excuse it was. “Take me with you,” she repeated. “Please.”  
  
Tightening Firefoot’s stirrups, Éomer shook his head. He didn’t have time to argue about this. “I’m leaving now,” he said firmly. “And you are going back up to the Hornburg.” Lindissë opened her mouth to protest. “Now.”  
  
With a cry of frustration, Lindissë ran out, muttering angrily in Elvish. Éomer felt bad for her, but there was nothing he could do. While Gandalf had been the one who had agreed to watch over the girl, he still couldn’t knowledgably endanger her life.  
  
Éomer leapt onto Firefoot’s back, leading her onto the busy street. He caught a glimpse of Lindissë, glaring out from behind some barrels, but pretended not to see her. She was going to have to learn to live through disappointment. Goodness knew she’d have her fair share before it was all over.  
  
\--  
  
After what seemed like years, Éomer halted just under the edge of Fangorn Forest. It was now night once again, as it had taken him all day to travel northward across the plains of Rohan. Somehow, the air under the trees seemed yet more dank and gloomy in the gathering black. Éomer wondered distractedly how he was going to find Morehtelé.  
  
Reassuring himself, Éomer dismounted, knowing that it would be easier if he was on foot. At first, he couldn’t recognize anything, and wandered quite aimlessly before he realized that he was in the clearing where he’s first seen Lindissë. From there, it was only a half mile to the entrance of Morehtelé, though it took him longer, due to Firefoot’s reluctance. The cavern loomed over Éomer’s head, glaring blacker than even the midnight sky. Perhaps Míriel has left, he thought.  
  
Éomer gulped and tied Firefoot up on a convenient tree. He walked forward, thinking the whole time that it was a mistake. Only bad things could come of this.  
  
Suddenly a loud gasp wrenched through the still air. He realized that it had passed out of his own lips. About twenty feet into the cave, a small bluish light appeared ahead, attracting the man as if he were a gnat. Yet when Éomer drew close to the flame, it evaded him and retreated still deeper into the gloom.  
  
As he walked, Éomer barely noted that he was passing through the great hall and into the Elf’s private, more secluded chambers. There, the tunnel narrowed until it was barely wide enough for him for pass through comfortably. By this time, the blue flicker of light had disappeared entirely, and Éomer was continuing on by instinct alone.  
  
A faint, haunting song poured down the passageway—much like Lindissë’s. Except this time, it was not an instrument, simply words. No doubt this was Míriel, unless there was more than one Elf living in Morehtelé.  
  
Suddenly, Éomer was blinded by a brilliant flare of light—like the glimmer he’d been following before, only intensified. Blinking dazedly, he leaned against the wall, wonder what was happening to him. Very gradually, the brightness dissipated, and Éomer could make out details—the majority of which bewildered him.  
  
Below him stretched a large pool with little rivulets and waterfalls trickling into it from above. In the center of the black water was a tall, smooth boulder. Míriel was sitting atop it, eyes closed, singing mournfully.  
  
So this is why she calls it Morehtelé, marveled Éomer.  
  
At that moment, the Elf glanced up, staring straight at the intruder. It was then that Éomer noticed that the almost overpowering glow was radiating from her body. Fear consumed him, and he tried to back away, but he was already leaning against the stone wall, so there was nowhere else to go.  
  
“Éomer, son of Éomund,” Míriel called, a hint of impatience coloring her tone. “To what do I owe your visit?”  
  
Feeling as if he were underwater, Éomer struggled to assemble his thoughts. “Gandalf,” he croaked finally. Never in his life had he met anyone like this Elf. She was amazing, and slightly frightening.  
  
With breathtaking grace and speed, Míriel leapt into the water and waded across to Éomer, eyes flashing brightly. “What?” she hissed. “Who sent you here?”  
  
“Gandalf,” Éomer repeated. “H-he said to seek your guidance.”  
  
“Yes, I gathered that,” she said. “But why exactly? Nothing has happened to him?”  
  
Éomer shook his head. “He’s alive, but there were some difficulties.” He wasn’t sure how much to tell the Elf, especially after what he had just witnessed.  
  
“Éomer!” Míriel threw up he hands in frustration, struggling to remain calm. “Tell me the whole story, if you please.”  
  
“Well,” he began, wondering where to start. “We made it to the Entwash safely, and there Gandalf had us stop for the night. Everything seemed fine and I fell asleep, but was awakened in the night by a scream. Pippin–the Hobbit–stole the palantír.”  
  
Míriel gasped in disbelief. “I didn’t think he would be so foolish,” she whispered.  
  
So she also noticed Peregrin’s strange behavior. Éomer nodded in agreement. “Then a Winged Messenger flew over us, and Gandalf took Pippin with him, traveling ahead to Edoras. Just before he rode away, Gandalf told me to find you.”  
  
“But if Mithrandir is only going to Edoras, there should be no need for my help,” the Elf pointed out, frowning in confusion.  
  
“That’s what Lindissë said.” Éomer smiled ruefully. It was odd that nobody had thought about that before he had left Helm’s Deep.  
  
“Lindissë is wise beyond her years,” said Míriel tiredly. Her gaze turned thoughtful for a few moments. The Elf sighed and shook her head, plainly not wanting to think about her handmaiden. “What Mithrandir has insinuated by calling for my aid is disturbing. I do not think that we shall find him in Rohan. Nay, by now, he and the Hobbit are well outside of the borders.” She kneaded her temples. “No, somehow he knew that something was going to come up.”  
  
“But what?”  
  
“I don’t know, obviously.” Míriel turned and walked into the great hall, Éomer following.  
  
“I suppose this was all a part of his plan,” Míriel said. “To him, I’m sure that it was all a neat coincidence. He must realize that I haven’t been outside the boundaries of Fangorn for decades. Not since—” At that, the Elf stopped, realizing that she wasn’t alone.  
  
Outwardly, Éomer kept his face neutral, but his mind was reeling with jumbled thought. He was sure that Míriel had been about to say something of great importance.  
  
“So are you coming then?” he asked hopefully.  
  
His inquiry was met with hard, iron blue eyes. “I will think on it,” she said distantly. “But first, tell me, is Tharan – Legolas still among your company?”  
  
Puzzling over the motives behind the Elf’s question, Éomer shrugged. “He is, but I’m not sure if he will continue on with Théoden or not. Aragorn has chosen to take the Paths of the Dead, and he might follow.”  
  
Míriel nodded shortly and sank down onto some nearby cushions. A look of pure hopelessness was on her face, and Éomer felt it best to leave her alone. Besides, he needed time to sort out his own emotions. On the pretense of checking on Firefoot, he left.  
  
Outside the cave, a slow breeze was winding among the leaves scattered on the ground. Éomer settled himself down at the base of a particularly large oak tree. It wasn’t an entirely comfortable or pleasant position, but it would have to do. If he couldn’t think out his problems, Éomer feared he might go mad.  
  
First off, there was the fact that Míriel was living by herself. It went against everything he knew about Elves and their customs. Then there was her obvious discomfort around Legolas, who she often mistook for Tharanduil, his father. And the final issue–and by far the most disturbing-was the light that constantly originated from Míriel’s person.  
  
She’s an Elf, his mind rationalized. She probably possesses powers that could possibly rival a wizard’s.  
  
Yet Legolas didn’t seem to be very different from an average human. Certainly, he did not have even a hint of enchantment about him. Éomer frowned, trying to think of a plausible reason as to why Míriel shimmered and Legolas did not. He wished that he knew more Elves, to make a comparison easier. Maybe it was just that there were different kinds of Elves, just as there were men.  
  
Recognizing the childish path his thoughts were heading down and attributing it to his overtiredness, Éomer drew a blanket out from his pack. It would have been far more comfortable inside Morehtelé, but he didn’t want to disturb Míriel. Gandalf had thought it very important that she left Fangorn, and Éomer wasn’t willing to put the small chance that the Elf would come at risk.  
  
\--  
  
“Éomer,” a voice said from above him.  
  
He blinked open his sleep-heavy eyelids and moaned groggily. There was a knotted tree root at the base of his neck, and it was creating a fierce throb that coursed all throughout his spine. Maybe sleeping outside hadn’t been the best idea after all.  
  
“You were out here all night?” The Elf turned disapproving eyes on the man. “It would not have bothered me if you had come back in. I am not as terrifying as you would think. Follow me.”  
  
She turned and walked slowly back into the cave. Éomer stood, wincing in with the pain that such a simple movement had caused. As he strode tiredly across the forest floor, a powerful ache flared up along his spine, making him gasp out loud. The tree root had done more damage than he would want to admit. It was not in him to speak of any in injury, especially a minor one such as this, and definitely never in the presence of an Elf like Míriel.  
  
Inside Morehtelé itself, the air was a good five degrees cooler, and Éomer found himself wishing for a heavier cloak. The displeased atmosphere Míriel was giving off didn’t help matter by much either.  
  
The long, low-lying table had been laid with a lavish array of food, and Éomer wondered where it had all come from. Surely the Elf didn’t hunt or forage for her own refreshment? Míriel gestured gracefully to an open seat and he settled down, grabbing a slice of fruit. Pressing her long, white fingers together and placing her chin atop them, the Elf regarded him gravely. Expecting her to speak, Éomer shoveled another bite into his mouth.  
  
“Do try not to choke,” were the only words Míriel would let pass through her lips. She apparently knew what the man wanted her to say, and was enjoying keeping him in suspense.  
  
Finally, the table was devoid of any edible items, and Éomer began to feel like a fatted calf. He leaned back and sighed. If it were up to him, he’d stay here forever. Never, even at the king’s own table could one find food such as this—in both quality and quantity. But it wasn’t up to him and Éomer needed to rejoin his uncle very soon.  
  
“So are you going to come?” he asked carefully, not wanting to offend the Elf. He hated rushing and possibly upsetting her, but Éomer was left with little choice. “I do not have much time to spare.”  
  
Míriel looked at him sharply, visibly irritated by Éomer’s unrelenting persistence. “You must understand the seriousness of my leaving Fangorn,” she said softly. “If anyone knew…if anyone were too…” she shook her head. “And yet, if Middle-earth is destroyed, what would it all matter in the end?”  
  
Éomer tensed, waiting.  
  
The Elf sighed heavily. “Alright, I will go with you to Edoras.” Seeing the look on Éomer’s face, she frowned. “I’m not saying that I’ll stay, just that I will go. If it turns out that Mithrandir is waiting for us, then I’m turning right back all around, and no arguments.”  
  
Seeing that disagreeing was futile, Éomer nodded reluctantly. Chances were that Gandalf was already far, far away from Rohan by this time.  
  
But what did she have against leaving Fangorn? Lindissë had acted in a similar manner back at Helm’s Deep. There was clearly something in the Elf’s past that only Gandalf, possibly Lindissë, and Míriel knew. Come to think of it, Lindissë had to have some hidden secrets of her own. Babies didn’t just turn up outside of Enthomes, and normal people didn’t shudder at a well-intentioned joke about dungeons.  
  
Éomer got the feeling that neither woman had pleasant histories.


End file.
